A Shoulder to Cry On
by Frankie McStein
Summary: And to think, until he rolled the Jeep, it had had all the makings of a good day. Shamless pre-series Jackson whump.
It was turning out to be a good day after all. Waking up with a hangover was never going to top the list of 'best ways to start the day,' but Abe's coffee always managed to make the recovery period more bearable somehow. After three cups - "No sugar, no milk, just how nature intended." - Jackson had even managed to finish off an entire plate of scrambled eggs. And now he was on his way to a small airfield, nearly six hours' drive away, music blasting, to pick up four crates of desperately needed medical supplies for his mom's clinic.

Some small part of him, the part that had never quite gotten over the thrill of sitting behind the wheel of his dad's car for the first time, rejoiced over every bump in the track. Jackson lifted one hand from the wheel to adjust his sunglasses slightly, rolling his shoulders as best he could without swerving. Loud as the music was, he could still hear the engine throbbing and he felt the tension of the last few days ebbing away.

Life hadn't exactly been easy since his father had let reality slip away from him, and his family along with it. His mother had been torn between defending her ex-husband to their friends and hanging on to said friendships. Jackson had simply up and left one day, without a plan or destination in mind, and had felt guilty ever since for abandoning his mother like that.

But now they were both settled in Africa with friends all around them, a thriving safari business for him and a busy hospital for his mother. These supplies, the last in a long line of supplies on which the hospital had been dangerously low for some time now, would spell the end of extraordinary stress for a good few months, nothing to worry about but ordinary stress. Either way, there was nothing better to combat stress of any kind than a six hour drive, alone, with nothing but the wildlife and his music to keep him company.

He caught movement in the corner of his eye, a flash of colour that had him turning almost instinctively to try to identify the cause. A bird, he supposed, scanning the he remembered that even his thirteen year old self, still waiting for his growth spurt and straining to reach the pedals, would have known better than to take his eyes off the road. Jackson turned his head back, just in time to see the carcass partially blocking the road.

He pulled on the wheel, hand over hand as he tried to avoid hitting the dead animal, but the front wheel caught anyway and the angle simply stole all control away from him. The Jeep wobbled and tipped, but for a fraction of a second he thought he was going to be okay. Then a pothole rocked the other front tire, and the world flipped as the Jeep dropped heavily onto the driver's side. Jackson's head caught the door frame with a crack that would have scared away any wildlife that had stuck around, and he was unconscious before the Jeep had stopped rocking.

Jackson woke with a small groan, pain flaring behind his eyes as he tried to figure out where on earth he had fallen asleep to be so uncomfortable. He fervently hoped that Abe was somewhere nearby with a gallon or so of his coffee close at hand, or else he was going to have no choice but to swear off drinking for life. Cracking his eyes open made a scream of pain well up in his throat, and the sickening memory of the Jeep overturning rushed to the forefront of his mind.

"Oh no, no, no, no," he whispered, fighting to get his breath as pain suddenly flared in every part of his body. His head was throbbing, his chest was on fire, his stomach was churning, his shoulder was… shoulder…

A small, choked, desperate moan was forced out of his mouth as he realized just how bad the pain in his shoulder was, how it was making it hard to breathe, hard to think. Think think think. What to do next. What was the situation? Understand the situation, control the situation. Jeep: lying on the driver's side. Him: sprawled on the door, trapped by the seat belt. Ah, seat belt. Release the seat belt, exit the vehicle. Just one steady breath first, c'mon now. Amazingly, the simple act of focusing on dragging a breath into his stomach instead of his chest helped to clear his head a little, and Jackson managed to release his seat belt and reach slowly up to grab his jacket from where it had been thrown by the crash.

'Okay,' he thought, carefully pronouncing each word in his head, 'out through the passenger window then use the jacket to make a sling then start walking.' Another slow, steadying breath.

'Easy.' He might have rolled his eyes, but he wouldn't admit it, even to himself. He was absolutely not doubting his ability to get himself out of this mess. Not even a little. Except that the passenger window seemed awfully high considering he only had the use of one arm and he wasn't actually…

Another deep, steadying breath.

'C'mon,' said his mother's voice in his head. 'Start moving.' And he tried, really he did. But the window really was too high for him to pull himself out with only one hand, particularly as the slightest jolt to his injured shoulder sent waves of pain and nausea rolling through him. After trying twice, he gave up on the passenger window and decided squeezing through the seats to the rear window would be easier. At least, it couldn't be harder.

After having to stop three times before actually getting out of the Jeep, Jackson was ready to happily vow to never drive ever again if he could just please catch his breath without feeling dizzy and sick. Throw in not having to feel this burning pain anymore, and he'd agree to become a teetotaller too. But thinking like that made him remember nights spent drinking with Abe, and that made him think of Abe, and that reminded him that Abe and his mother expected him to be gone until nearly midnight.

'Okay, sling, supplies, shift your arse.' He set his jaw before even trying to turn his jacket into a sling, unclenching his teeth only to use them to tighten the knot he'd managed to tie. It wasn't a sling; it was more of a restraint. His arm was able to rest against it however, so he figured it was more than good enough given the circumstances. He didn't dare kneel down to grab his backpack with his water bottles, choosing instead to balance against the Jeep with his good hand and snag the strap of the bag with his foot. Bending down to pick up the bag nearly ended with him unconscious in the dust, and it took a long second before he even realized he had actually fallen, dropping heavily to his knees.

He stayed where he was, aware for the first time since he'd woken up in the wreck of the Jeep that his head was still bleeding.

"Your mother is a doctor," he told himself, as sternly as he could given how weak his voice was. "She can fix you up. Just… just move."

And he did. He dragged himself upright and steadied the bag on his shoulder as best he could before taking a wobbling step back the way he had driven not ten minutes before. His stubborn nature served him well, making him put one foot in front of the other in spite of the pain that dogged his every step. Each time a foot hit the dusty ground, it jarred his shoulder and made his breath catch slightly. But the more he forced himself to just keep walking, the easier it got to pretend that the pain in his shoulder was going to ease up any second now.

After almost an hour, he was starting to think that he was never going be pain free again, that he would never be able to remember a life without the feel of fire in his bones. But thinking like that made him start thinking dark, morbid thoughts, and he knew he had to cut those thoughts off at the pass. He would be fine, absolutely fine. He just needed something else to think about.

"I left at nine," he said aloud, not caring about how talking would make his throat that much drier than it already was. "Six hours there, an hour or so to load, refuel, eat, then six hours back. So no one is expecting me back until around 10 tonight. I drove for three hours so walking back will take… Well, let's assume a walking speed of three miles an hour and an average driving speed of sixty."

His voice was barely audible, even to himself. He desperately needed a drink, but the idea of taking the bag off his good shoulder, kneeling to open it, wrestling with the bottle top… the very idea of the arduous process made his stomach start rolling again. Better to ignore his thirst for as long as possible, especially as there was a very real chance he wouldn't start moving again once he stopped. Just keep walking, keep talking, keep putting one foot in front of the other and ignoring the pain in his body, the sandpaper in his throat, the heat rolling over the dust that was trying to choke him with every step.

"So, it'll take days to walk back. But, luckily, I won't need to wait that long. By eleven o'clock, midnight at the latest, Abe will be worrying about where I am, what's taking me so long. He'll come out looking for me, and as long as I can stay on the track, there's no way he can miss me. So, assuming he leaves at midnight and drives at around… Well he won't drive as fast as I was because he won't want to drive past me in the dark, so let's say thirty miles an hour. It won't take him longer than six hours to find me. Sooner if I can just. Keep. Moving."

Another half an hour and Jackson wasn't even sure if he was actually moving forward anymore or just lifting his feet and walking in place. He was going to pass out soon if he didn't drink, and really, what was the point in lugging the bag along with him if he didn't drink the water that was in it? So he dropped the bag to the ground and followed after it by simply letting his body fold in on itself. The relief at finally being off his feet lasted all of five seconds before his muscles and joints started loudly protesting their treatment over the last few hours.

He tried to take a breath, to hold it deep in his lungs and ride out the pain the way Abe had taught him, but his lungs weren't interested in cooperating with him. His breath hitched and stuttered as his body twitched with the pain that was rippling through every muscle he possessed. The headache that had been lurking behind his eyes, ignored by sheer force of will, exploded at the change in altitude and made him feel as though his every synapse had been lovingly wrapped in barbed wire.

Between the pain, the dehydration, and the exhaustion, Jackson had just enough time to notice the fingers of his left hand felt worryingly numb before he gave up on riding out the pain and dropped out of consciousness.

He didn't come back to himself until the odd sensation of his face being licked by something brought him awake with a start that scared off whatever it was and woke up all the aches and pains from the crash. He groaned, knowing he had to get back on his feet, start moving again. But he couldn't. He hadn't given up; he just didn't have anything left to give. He was already feeling dizzy and exhausted and he hadn't even managed to lift his head.

Hoping against hope that his mystery face licker was a dog from a safari camp and not something like a curious lion cub, Jackson stopped trying to move. Everything ached and throbbed. He was burning up but could feel himself shivering. He could see, if he forced his eyelids up a few inches, the water bottle lying close by, but he couldn't even summon the energy to move his arm.

"Abe." He wasn't making any sound now, just mouthing the word, as if that would be enough to conjure up his friend from the empty nothingness of the savannah. "Abe." But no Abe appeared.

Moving.

Something was moving.

The… ground? The ground was moving?

No, no. Not the ground. Maybe…

Whatever it was jostled his shoulder.

The ground was definitely moving. Up and down, like a boat.

He couldn't be on a boat.

Could he?

'Okay, time to open your eyes.' And he tried, with everything he had. Light came crashing into the cool darkness, and he flinched away.

"Easy, Rafiki," came a quiet, soothing voice. "Just lie still."

Questions tried to form in Jackson's mind, but he was beyond tired, and the thoughts couldn't hold themselves together. Abe was there. Abe would look after him. Abe always… always… Jackson's consciousness slipped away again.

"Jackson? Jackson."

Quiet but insistent, he got the feeling the voice wasn't going to go away anytime soon.

"C'mon, time to wake up."

It didn't sound much like Abe, but hadn't Abe been there? Who was it if not Abe?

"Abe?" Wait, did he mean to say that? Did he actually say it?

"No, not quite Abe." That was definitely amusement.

This whole being totally lost thing was getting old, and he was feeling more awake than he had since his stupid Jeep went and crashed itself. His head felt less like it was made of rusty metal and more like clouds and cotton sheets. So Jackson forced his eyes to open and met his mother's smiling gaze.

"There you are," she whispered, relief evident in her face and voice. "You had us worried." She looked away, and Jackson slowly managed to follow her gaze. Abe was sprawled on the bed next to his, snoring softly as he slept.

"How... I..." His throat was still dry, and he choked on the words. His mother reached to adjust the IV even as she shushed him.

"A safari plane spotted the Jeep overturned in the road and radioed down to us. Abe went out to find you as soon as we got the call. He was able to relocate your shoulder, but you needed a lot of patching up once he got you back here…" She paused, then continued, "Then the poor man sat up all night waiting for you wake up." Her smile was tight, and Jackson was awake enough now to realize how worried she must have been, how scared she must have felt, and he reached out to grab her hand.

"It wasn't… deliberate," he managed, trying to push a smile onto his face. It must have worked to some extent, because she snorted a quiet laugh and shook her head, the look on her face one of fond exasperation that he had come to associate almost entirely with himself.

"Go back to sleep." Her fingers ran lightly over his scalp, maybe just checking the swelling, but probably not. "I'll wake you in the morning."

And, like the good son he was always trying to be, Jackson went to sleep. 

End

(This was written following a discussion about how few fics there are for this fandom and how none of them are Jackson whump and how that just isn't fair. I was volun-told to fix that)


End file.
